


Bang-Red-Delta

by neko_kohaku



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Awesome Karen Page, Blood and Injury, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Humor, Frank Castle needs a hug, Fratt Week (Marvel), Gen, German Clichés, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Frank Castle, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Minor Frank Castle/Matt Murdock, Mutual Teasing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Frank Castle, Past Matt Murdock/Karen Page, Reporter Karen Page, Soft Frank Castle, Soft matt murdock, Touch-Starved, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_kohaku/pseuds/neko_kohaku
Summary: Frank is having a shitdayweekmonth. Red does what he does best.Aggravate Frank.Give a helping hand.Written for the February 2021Fratt Week4 Friday:Red
Relationships: Frank Castle & Matt Murdock, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fratt Week





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the February 2021 [Fratt Week](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/frattweek/) 4 for Friday: **Red**. 
> 
> A big thank you for the nice and welcoming atmosphere over at the Fratt Big Bang Discord Server and it's citizens for lending a helping hand and encouraging my writing <3.
> 
> This is the first fic I have ever posted, I am not a native speaker and have no beta reader, thus, I am a little nervous! So, if you find any blatant mistakes or tags I forgot to add, please let me know :)
> 
> If you like what I've written, I'd love to get a kudos or even a comment if you have the time :)
> 
> Also, check out the other amazing works in the [Fratt Week](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/frattweek/) Collection

Frank checks his thermos for the third time in as many minutes, full well knowing that the last dredges had been drained half an hour ago. He curses himself and his piece-of-shit date-raping target for not showing hide nor hair after sticking to his schedule like a machine for the past couple days.

The stitches in his lower back strain and twinge in tandem with his still bruised ribs as he stretches and rolls himself out of his sniping position in the approaching dusk.

He reluctantly packs up his rifle, blanket and thermos and carefully makes his way off the wet slanted roof and back to his safe house. The stinky basement of doom one. He grits his teeth at last weeks events causing two thirds of his safe houses to become compromised.

The first one hadn't even been his fault. The apartment building had had no electricity (but miraculously still running water) as the owner didn't give a shit about the state of the building and its tenants, who in turn didn't give a shit about paying their rent in time or in the proper amount. A situation that was fine with Frank, he could suck it up with cold showers, a little gas-fueled hot plate and a couple of candles.

One of the tenants, however, had apparently taken offence to the absence of electricity and instigated a fucking electrical fire that had caused a chain-reaction of alternating visits from the fire department, the police and the department of housing to investigate the situation, hold the owner accountable and shut the whole fucking building down. Frank, of course had abandoned ship as soon as he had spotted the fire truck and the plume of smoke ascending into the sunset sky like a metaphor of his life fucking him over because things had been running too smooth for over a month now. He should have fucking known that fate or the gods or whatever wouldn't leave it at that. After all, he hadn't been maimed and humiliated yet, he had only lost a shitty safe house. The other shoe had dropped a few days later.

Of all the fucking assholes in the world, it had to be Daredevil to find him nearly bleeding out from a lower back wound that he had no hope in the fucking world to even remotely being able to reach to stitch up for himself in some god-forsaken back alley after an unscheduled run-in with a couple of skin-heads terrorising an Indian family business. He had taken care of business with righteous vigour and efficiency but gratuitously earned himself two broken ribs and a fucking K-Bar to the back.

How did he know that the ribs were broken? Apparently, X-Ray-Vision was only one of Red's freaky-ass ninjas abilities, along with an impeccable stitching job that would even give Curt a run for his money. Not that Frank ever paid him for his services, not in monetary terms at least, his friendly insults were worth more than money anyway. But hey, on the upside, his nose was still in one piece. 

There's a lot to be said about Red, but his fucked-up moral code naturally wouldn't allow him to abandon Frank to his fully-deserved fate of kicking it in a rat-infested, piss-stained alley. It had him rolling his eyes even now thinking about it. 

He could see it before his minds eye. All Red needed was one of those old-fashioned nurses uniforms the way he had fussed and tutted about Frank's injuries, refusing to leave his side even after everything had been taken care of and he had obediently taken his iron supplements to help with the blood loss. 

After the amount of blood he had lost, Frank was actually surprised that he had managed to stay conscious for as long as he did. The too-close presence of Daredevil, practically hauling him through the neighbourhood had had him on high alert, adrenaline still kicking up a last ditch effort to not surrender his body to a vulnerable state in the other man's presence, even though he had known fully well that Red would do no unnecessary harm. Not after going through the all the trouble of getting him to a safe location, stripping him out of his bloody clothes and stitch his stupid reckless ass back up. But he wouldn't put it past him to call the cops on him after their frequent and violent encounters and intellectual discussions about their moral quandaries...

Words could not describe his immense relieve at waking up in pain, freezing and alone on his ratty couch with the ratty throw blanket instead of hard prison steel or the watchful gaze of that creepy-ass red gargoyle. Still, he had abandoned the compromised attic as soon as his wounds had allowed so that Red wouldn't sniff him out again after admonishing him for half a fucking hour that the stitches would have to be removed seven to ten days later and let him do it if there was nobody else to do it for him.

He had wanted to knock the glass of water and the Advil that he had no recollection of owning off the windowsill next to the couch in annoyance, but had ultimately caved, swallowed his wounded pride and accepted the unmerited act of kindness, if only so he'd be able to leave the safe house never to be found again by overeager altar boys.

And then he was down to one safe house, which, of course, had to be the disgusting one in the basement of a weird incarnation of the stereotypical American idea of a German joint that smelled of cheap beer, sausage and sauerkraut all the fucking time and had titbits of raucous cheer in that annoying language wafting down each night.

His improvised tinkering with a small explosive device had, surprisingly, not improved the situation smell-wise and the location would not allow for proper air circulation at all. Still, the smell of burned cordite and black matches was preferable to the stench of disgusting food every night.

At the thought of having to spend another night there, he is equally relieved and annoyed at remembering that he had neither been to the laundromat, nor been out grocery shopping recently due to his reconnaissance on date-rape bastard. 

He had been looking forward to a hot shower and a cold one all day stuck on that wet, uncomfortable roof. At least the hot shower is a-go, but then he'll have to suck it up and get out again for a bite and a beer.

After remaining under the hot spray for far too long – the one perk of this safe house – and mostly succeeding to avoid getting the bandage on his back wet, Frank goes on a hunt for his last spare clean clothes.

He manages to find boxers and a black pair of jeans but the last remaining fresh shirt is a red long-sleeve that Leo had gifted to him last Christmas, and that he had avoided thus far due to the bright colour and his less-than-favourable associations with it.

It's not anywhere near his style and he would choose any other shirt if given the chance but he figures he can just wear his black hoodie over it so he'll draw fewer looks. 

He gets dressed as quickly as possible, grabs his wallet and leaves to get some food at a place that is decidedly not the pretentious American wet dream of Bavaria. 

After he treats himself to a nice delicious pizza, he really has no other choice but to find a nice bar to go with it as he has nothing left to drink at the safe house but some cans of 7up that have expired three years ago and half a bottle of grappa that he can't remember buying as it is the most disgusting beverage ever and that probably came with the place. Would fit the disgusting theme and all.

He walks a block and a half in search of a half way decent joint but dares not go further in fear of getting too close to the Devil's home base. The bar he settles on is below quarter way decent, but whatever, he wants a drink, not a fancy dinner party. 

The patrons don't spare him a second glance as he quickly orders a bottle of beer and retreats to the further back by the pool table to keep a good view of both front and back entrance.

Predictably, as it's the beginning of the weekend, the place fills up quickly, people crowding in and heating up the small bar in no time. He relaxes into the murky darkness of the bar and the anonymity of the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Frank is nursing his second beer when the unthinkable happens and his night takes a nosedive from his, admittedly, already shitty day. His escape route to the front door is obviously out, and the back door is currently blocked by a stack of full beer crates. Wonderful. He curses his shitty fucking luck for the umpteenth time today.

His only chance is getting lost in the crowd of people by pulling his hood up and lowering his face into his beer until he has it finished and can discreetly disappear into the night. No need to waste a perfectly good drink.

A technique that seems to work for about two mouthfuls and then he is caught like a deer in the headlights as he hears the stunned exclamation of his name over the chatter of the crowd.

He actually flinches at the volume of the voice, head whipping up just in time to see Karen Page sauntering over with a bottle of beer in one hand and steering a red-headed lawyer along on the other. 

Frank wants to melt into the floor and disappear at having to deal with Red again so soon after being at his mercy and having been chewed out about the stitches. Not that he is at all eager at having to deal with Karen either, as their last couple of interactions had been tinged heavily toward Karen providing crucial intel and not getting anything in return except his gratitude, which gnaws at Frank's pride almost as much as having Red scrape him from the side of a building and fix him up like it's nobody's business.

The two of them bump into a couple of people on their way over and Frank wants to roll his eyes at the blatant acting on Murdock's part, as he could probably use his eerie powers to float above the crowd or some equally unbelievable bullshit. But as it stands, he has his cane and a bottle of what appears to be root beer in the hand that is not holding onto Karen's elbow, red tinted glasses shining dully in the dark lit room, obediently playing up his blind-dude routine.

They arrive at Frank's table before he has time to gather his wits or come up with a believable excuse to escape the situation, mind absolutely blank.

Red is smiling a suspiciously creepy knowing smile that is only dimmed by the mind-boggling fact that he almost falls face first into the table as Karen, worlds worst guide-dog, doesn't stop him in time to bump against the side.

Instinct, kicking in faster than he can blink, has Frank saving his beer with one hand and the other shooting out towards the lawyers shoulder to stabilise him.

Red adjusts his glasses and tilts his head toward Karen, eyebrows raised in disbelief and mouth slightly agape.

"Oh my god Matt, I'm so sorry, that was totally unintentional! Are you okay?"

To Frank's ears, she looks mortified and sounds perfectly sincere, too, which makes the little scene even weirder. Nobody was actively watching them and even if they were, it would have looked like Karen _did_ stop him in time when he did on his own. No need to act for his or Karen's sake.

"You mean that wasn't payback for ruining your date with whats-his-name?"

Karen looks about two seconds from stomping her foot, on the floor or Murdock's foot, Frank isn't sure. Much like an afterthought, Frank remembers to take back his hand that had lingered on Red's shoulder just … in case? 

"Jesus, Matt, will you let it go already? Do you honestly think I'm that petty?"

"Yes." 

Murdock and Frank chime in unison and Frank wants to disappear into the floor again as Red's face tilts in his direction with a slight upturn of his mouth.

Karen simply rolls her eyes and then, just as dreaded, the cross-examination begins.

"Frank, we haven't seen you around much lately,"

Red discreetly turns his head away from Karen, seemingly browsing the room, but Frank isn't fooled.

"what have you been up to?"

Boy, what a loaded question.

He takes a sip from his bottle to stall a little, waiting until Murdock has turned his glasses back in his direction before answering.

"Nothing much, the usual. You?"

Karen frowns in disapproval, not deigning to ask about the details, knowing full well what the usual entails.

"Same, I'm onto a story, waiting on some intel at the moment. Matt here owes me a butt-load of drinks so I'm trying to get him a chance to pay up little by little so he doesn't have to buy me a whole brewery by the end of the year."

Frank can relate. The amount of favours he owes her pretty much adds up to the same, if not more. Maybe they can combine forces and gift her a trip to the Caribbean or something. Nobody deserves it more than her.

Red opens his mouth to protest, or to agree, but is interrupted by the shrill blare of a cell phone. Karen grimaces in apology. 

"Shit, sorry, I have to take this," 

She holds up a finger and rummages in her purse for her obnoxiously ringing mobile. Telephone in hand, she takes two steps before lunging back and slapping Red's hand away from where it had sneakily crawled up on Frank's beer. He hadn't even noticed. Fucking ninja asshole.

"I'm not telling you again, mister! No alcohol for you!"

Murdock rubs his hand, appropriately admonished, then folds his arms across his chest and pouts.

Satisfied, Karen's finger swivels toward him, large smile on her face, and Frank flinches in anticipation of whatever _he_ has done wrong now.

"Don't let him drink! Love the shirt by the way, red totally suits you."

Frank internally (externally? He can't really control his unsavoury physical reactions whenever dealing with any third of the unholy trinity of dumbasses, otherwise known as Nelson, Murdock and Page) rolls his eyes.

With a pat to Frank's chest, she grabs her own beer, answers her phone and fucks off to some place more quiet, leaving him and Red to snipe at each other in awkward, stilted silence.

Murdock isn't pouting any more. Instead, he does this infuriating head tilt and soundless muttering before lowering his gaze to somewhere around Frank's waist. 

The gesture is so glaringly obvious that Frank immediately freezes in apprehension of Red's idea on his shortcomings. Not that he doesn't know what he has done wrong, it's not like Red hadn't lectured him on it for nearly half an hour while his mind had refused to succumb to the blood loss and fuck off to la la land in dumbass No. 1's presence.

Before said dumbass can voice his disapproval, Frank gets the drop on him.

"You in AA now?"

He accentuates the rude question with a sip of his beer as Red starts to pout again. Honestly, it would be cute if he wasn't such a human disaster in the first place.

Murdock fumbles for his own drink, turning it around and peeling at the label with a thumbnail.

Frank observes the stalling and actually detects signs of embarrassment in Red's body language. Either he has hit too close to home with that one or it might be something that potentially compromises his karate kid abilities that he doesn't want to admit in front of an enemy/sometimes-ally. If he actually was in AA then Karen wouldn't have been so nonchalant about it, and outing him at the same time in front of Frank of all people.

"You don't have to tell me."

Red actually deflates a little, knowing full well that Frank would find out on his own with enough digging if he was so inclined, or if he cared at all.

Still, he remains stubborn and refuses to give an inch. Frank is not surprised, he takes a swig of beer and browses the crowded bar to give Red a chance to come forth. He doesn't ask again. It's none of his business anyway.

In absolute contrast to his previous thought, Frank subtly sweeps his eyes along Red's body. There is nothing out of the ordinary or out of place that would be an obvious tell to a major injury. Nothing major, however, is quite a relative term in Murdock's book. The man still goes to work after being shot, so nothing major could range from a variety of injuries, including but not limited to an appendage rotting off quite literally to a minor infection from a small cut. 

Red is wearing one of his nondescript off-the-rack dark grey suits, equally grey tie loose and first button of the white shirt undone, cane folded and stored in his suit jacket inside pocket, his red glasses and hair the only visible splashes of colour on his person. He isn't limping or holding himself at odd angles so it can't be anything too severe or obvious.

After a minute of silence, Murdock scoffs in indignation.

"Stop it!"

Frank's first reaction is to bark out a laugh, because Red had done literally the same not five minutes ago, only his observation skills had this otherworldly ninja-shit to boot and Frank had been quick to interrupt Red in his musings.

Even behind the glasses, Frank can see Murdock narrowing his eyes. It had been as obvious before as it is now that Red wouldn't let it go after Frank trying to distract from himself, either.

Frank knows exactly what is coming, even without Murdock having to voice his disapproval. It's been two full weeks since Red had patched him up and Frank honestly isn't sure what his plan of action had been in the first place. Maybe just live with the stitches like some fucked up piercing.

Its true. He had Curt to take care of his various and frequent illicit medical needs that he wasn't able to take care of on his own, and that excluded any stitching that wasn't too severe and that he was able to reach without contorting his body into painful positions. However, he had been reluctant to ask for Curt's help again after last months sad record of having to enlist his services for five days a week and two weeks in a row without having anything to offer in return except his snarky comments and his sparkling personality. Micro could have probably done it, too, but they were not really on speaking terms after a minor disagreement about each others M.O.s.

But at the end of the day, head clear and not fogged up with pain, adrenaline and severe blood-loss, calling on Red for that kind of thing had seemed out of the question, no matter how much the other man had nagged and lectured. Or was in the right.

Frank narrows his eyes as Red is about to open his mouth and points a finger at him. 

"No." 

Frank's voice leaves no room for argument, but that, naturally, only spurs Red on like he just poured gasoline on a fire.

Murdock opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted, for the umpteenth time that evening (small mercies), surprisingly, by Karen, who had managed to sneak up on him. 

Red flinches slightly as her voice breaks the tension between the two men. 

"Sorry boys, I've got to go. Just got a call from my informer."

She rummages in her purse again and downs her bottle that must have been filled three quarters still in one go. 

Frank swallows, eyes wide and earns himself an elbow to the ribs from Red. He retaliates by pinching him in the side. It has the desired effect and then some as Red yelps in surprise and almost physically jumps away, slapping at Frank's hand on the way. 

Karen narrows her eyes at Murdock and then at Frank trying to suppress his laughter. 

Red fixes him with his sunglasses, fuming silently, and then cocks his head toward Karen. 

He takes her by the arm and tries to steer her away from Frank a little, presumably to keep him from overhearing. 

Frank might not be a human bat, but his ears are still working better than most, so he still listens in on the discussion, feeling only marginally like a weirdo stalker. Karen is his friend after all. Red is... well whatever the love child of a gargoyle and a gremlin would be, probably. In relation to Frank, more of an enemy/sometimes-ally/significant annoyance sort of situation.

"You need backup?"

"It's fine, Matt. It's a large event with lots of people and I'll take a cab. I'll be good, thanks."

She smiles at Red kindly and pats his shoulder. 

Murdock still looks uncomfortable and a little defeated even.

"You said you'd accompany me home."

And now Frank's actually paying attention. Are Karen and Red a thing again? Probably not. He wouldn't have quipped about an interrupted date if they were. Was Karen dating? He'd have to check in on the person-in-question. And why was Red whining like a little kid about the early arrival of his bedtime? More than usual, anyway.

Karen's face falls and she almost face-palms. 

"Oh shit, you're right..."

She trails off suddenly and her head swivels toward Frank, who tries not to look like he was listening in the whole time. 

"I'm sure Frank can walk you home!"

She smiles brightly, and a little self-satisfied at each of them in turn and the both of them start protesting at the same time. 

"I don't need a babysitter!"

"I'm not his nanny!"

Karen looks on in amused disbelief, head turning back and forth, before stemming her arms on her hips and tilting her head in a way that speaks louder than any lecture could.

Frank internally cringes. A million favours, and then some.

He grumbles to himself and relents. At least that's one thing he can do _for her_ without having to resort to killing anyone. Possibly.

That Red surely owes her as many favours as he does has already been established. But even if he didn't, he'll relent anyway. Just because it's Karen and Murdock is a dopey goody-two-shoes.

Neither of them admits to it verbally, but the silent agreement is reached as Karen looks on gleefully, content in her orchestration.

"Maybe I'll ask _whats-his-name_ to come pick me up right after." 

Red scoffs to himself and folds his arms across his chest once more as Karen steps closer and kisses his temple in goodbye. Frank is not jealous, not at all, but it still irks him a little seeing the two of them close like that, craving a little of that physical attention for himself. 

He is a little mollified when Karen steps up to him right after and grants him his own kiss before she disappears to be a hard-headed investigative journalist out-of-orbit of the two train-wrecks Red and he are.

As soon as she is gone, the two train-wrecks are back to icy, stony silence. Frank downs the rest of his beer as quickly as he can (not as quickly as Karen had though, _damn_ ), so he can get the awkwardness behind them and get this over with.

Red is taking miniscule sips of his root beer and looks ready to bolt any second, cocking his head a lot and fiddling with the label on the bottle again.

Frank rolls his eyes, _again_ , and zips up his hoodie. 

"Fine, let's go."

Murdock cocks his head in surprise, uneasily shifting from one foot to the other. 

"We can stay."

Red sounds tentatively friendly, like he wants to defuse the tension, to offer an olive branch. Frank wants to strangle him. Wants to snarl and thrash and throw some punches. Something familiar to calm his nerves and get them back to common grounds.

All of this is inconceivably weird, this Karen-forced stalemate between them, no weapons and no fists thrown. It had been weird when Red had hauled him to the cemetery _that_ night, and it had been weird when he had hauled him to his safe house two weeks ago.

With great effort, he quells all his violent urges and forces himself to remain calm. And tells himself he does it for Karen.

"It's fine, I wanted to leave after this anyway."

Red only nods in response, satisfied because he can't detect a lie before downing the rest of his root beer and motioning for Frank to step ahead.

He doesn't know how to lead, but he ultimately decides that he presumably can't do worse than Karen.

Before Frank can figure out the polite course of action, Murdock has already grabbed onto his elbow and Frank, in turn, angles it like the gentleman that he is for a better grip. 

He navigates the two of them through the crowded bar to the damp chill of the night without major incident and with only shoving at one bar patron none-too-gently to keep Red from bumping into them. At which point Murdock looks like he is about to have an aneurysm from trying not to laugh. That little fucking shit.

The walk home is conducted in heavy silence, Frank muttering out warnings to upcoming curbs and street crossings and Murdock's attempts at small-talk fizzling out before they have a chance to take off.


	3. Chapter 3

Frank's endeavour of delivering Red at the door of his apartment building and be done with it are quashed as the other man simply doesn't let go, hauling him back in when Frank tries to flee half-heartedly.

"Come now, Frank, don't be a baby. The more you resist, the longer it'll take for you to get back to your dreary safe house."

Frank merely grunts in response, surrendering to his abominable fate.

As Murdock opens the door, Frank sighs in annoyance.

"Can't go back now after _you've_ compromised it."

Red scoffs in incredulity.

"Well I'm sorry, but you abandoning your safe house just because I know about it is hardly my fault."

Frank grunts again, technically true, practically false. But once Murdock is on his Closing Arguments, there's no stopping him, and he'd outwit Frank in a battle of words anyway. Two-tongued son-of-a-bitch.

Thus, he lets himself be dragged inside and upstairs into Red's apartment. 

As Frank browses the large space, Murdock sheds his suit jacket and tie, opening the rest of his buttons on his shirt before scuttling off to, what Frank assumes, is the bathroom. 

It's dark in the apartment, save for the artificially glowing red, blue and gold lights, streaming in from the large window front.

The red bricks, the sheer size and ceiling height of the apartment hint to a former use as a factory building, and Frank tries to take in as many details as he can while he has the chance. The interior and furniture match the factory style, seamlessly fitting into its ambience.

Of particular interest are the stairs that undoubtedly lead to a roof access and that arguably suit the other man's illicit nightly activities. Figures.

Red comes back out of the bathroom sans shirt, now only in a white t-shirt and sweatpants and a small black case in hand.

He motions toward the couch, puts the case on the coffee table and rummages around, procuring disinfectant, scissors, tweezers, and fresh gauze.

Frank grits his teeth in annoyance at having Red at his vulnerable back once more and on his own home turf, as well. He tries to suck it up with as much dignity as he can though, sheds his hoodie and puts it on the backrest of a chair.

At the clink of the belt buckle and the metallic whir of a zipper being pulled down, Red cocks his head, waiting patiently for Frank to lay down and give access to his back wound.

As soon as Frank has laid down on his stomach, Red kneels beside him on the floor, tentatively touching his hands to Frank's lower back and feeling around for his own handiwork.

Frank is frustrated about the gentle motions of Murdock rucking up the red shirt and removing the old stick-on bandage. He doesn't want this softness, he wants him to work in a perfunctory manner, rough even, maybe. He can't arrange this gentle, caring quality with the aggressive, physical side of Daredevil. It makes him uncomfortable and the compartment in his mind reserved for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen on the shelf labelled "asshole vigilante – do not interact" threatens to burst open and spill all over the place into compartments he definitely doesn't belong.

They don't speak for a while as Red disinfects the wound and gets lost in the repetitive activity of raising, cutting and pulling the tiny threads. It twinges here and there and Frank is perfectly aware it's because the removal is late, but neither of them mentions it and Frank is elated that he won't have to be at the tail end of another tirade. Somewhere around the tenth stitch, Frank lays his head down on his arm and starts to relax, the only sounds in the room their breathing and the quiet clink of the scissors and tweezers.

If he's honest with himself, the compartment containing the Devil's details had been compromised for a long time now. The breach has been made even more glaringly obvious after Red patching him up two weeks ago. Frank has trouble realigning his initial assumptions and views and confining the human disaster that is Matt Murdock into his neat little pre-defined box.

Not to mention the paradox of forcing a man into a single box, whose lifestyle choices split his whole persona smack dab in the middle in half.

Frank only notices the task coming to an end when Red has put the instruments away and is once more disinfecting the surface of the wound, now nearly healed.

Murdock cocks his head again and sweeps two fingers along the mostly straight raised line of the gash. 

The sensation is a little uncomfortable and, even though Frank merely sucks in a deeper breath at the feeling, Red immediately retreats from the scar and, incriminatingly, further down Frank's flank before recognising the direction his hand had taken unintentionally and withdrawing completely.

Red hums in approval, at a job well done or the satisfactory state of healing, Frank isn't sure, and he doesn't ask.

As Murdock steps away, putting the medical supplies back into the case, Frank is getting up from the couch, fastening his pants and belt and pulling his shirt back down, shivering a little at the sensation of the now exposed flesh rubbing against the cotton of his shirt. He grabs for his hoodie, hoping to escape from Red's orbit before the tentative peace is shattered by the inevitable wrong move either of them is about to make.

"Thanks, whenever you need stitches removed, I'll be sure to return the favour."

Murdock doesn't say anything, only presses his lips to a thin line.

Frank narrows his eyes, suspicious at first, and then it dawns on him. He turns around towards the other man, absolutely incredulous.

"You're kidding!?"

Red lowers his face to the task at hand, shutting the case with more force than necessary, annoyed, at himself or Frank, it's not really clear.

"I was going to ask Karen to do it. But if you're offering..."

Frank grumbles to himself and prays for patience. Of course, he wouldn't have offered had he known that Red would take him up on it straight away.

Murdock doesn't move though, obviously unsure about the sincerity in Frank's offer, equally cautious about their reluctant truce.

Frank pretends having to debate with himself, even though he knows perfectly well that he would _indeed_ have never offered if he had no intention of doing it in the first place. After a few seconds, he puts his hoodie back on the backrest of the chair and motions to the couch.

"Get on with it then."

There's a barely perceptible tension leaving Red's shoulders at Frank's words and he has to hold himself in check to not scoff at the obvious tell from a man that usually keeps his cards so close to his chest. 

Before Red reaches the couch with the medical kit though, he stumbles over a crease in the carpet, nearly braining himself for the second time that night on a table, but catching himself just in time on the backrest of the couch.

Frank had hastily stepped toward him to catch his potential fall and immediately steps back again to mask his intention.

Red grumbles to himself while putting the kit on the coffee table and Frank has to suppress his urge to laugh out loud at the unusual display of clumsiness. It is kind of endearing.

He quickly steps into the bathroom to thoroughly wash his hands and comes back to a shirtless and glassless Red, hair in disarray, standing before the couch, one hand touching the sutures on the juncture of neck and left shoulder. Again, Frank can't match this domestic side of Red with the ferocious vigilante. He is a little flabbergasted at the unusual sight, but catches himself quickly.

He lets himself plop down in the middle of the couch and puts the medical kit next to himself before kicking the coffee table further away from his position with a forceful shove of his foot, making Murdock flinch a little and not feeling bad at all about it.

Red only hesitates for a few seconds before regaining his feline grace and lowering himself in front of Frank and the couch, Indian style. For that alone, Frank wants to smack him upside the head. Red scoots back until his back hits the edge of the couch and one arm Frank's leg so that his neck comes within easy reach for Frank to work on.

He rummages around in the first-aid kit and comes upon a bottle of antibiotics. Nothing out of the ordinary for a man that gets injured on a regular basis, but this is prescribed for Murdock in person, not illegally obtained from his nurse friend or shoplifted from an obliging hospital apothecary. Thinking back to the almost-fall in the bar and the avoidance of alcohol, something clicks.

"You sick?"

Red cocks his head toward Frank in surprise, then toward the clinking sounds of him rifling through the kit, realising what Frank must have found.

He points to his ear and sniffs, probably in annoyance at having to explain himself.

"Ear infection. Foggy dragged me to the doctors when I lost my balance and ran into one too many people."

Frank can't help it, he snorts out a laugh. The almighty man without fear, felled by a children's illness.

"Shut up."

Red merely counters, but even from behind him, Frank can hear the smile in his voice.

When he has found everything he'll need for the job, he adjusts his position. Then he scowls a little at the shitty lighting, but he is a sharpshooter, he prides himself on the keenness of his eyes. It'll be fine for the few stitches that decorate Red's lower neck. He'd much prefer strangling the kid than taking care of him Operation-style, but oh well, he _had_ offered, no take-backs now.

Frank racks his brain, but can't for the life of him remember ever having done this for someone else and, therefore, tries to mimic Red's gentle ministration, tentatively touching his fingers to the sensitive side of Red's neck, in favour of diving right in with scissors and tweezers.

There's a very fine gold necklace with a tiny crucifix attached that is dangling on Murdock's chest. Frank frowns at it and then carefully moves it closer to the side of Red's neck so he doesn't accidentally cut it instead of the stitches.

The twine doesn't stick the way it had in his own skin and Murdock shows no sign of discomfort, resting his hands on the top of his thighs, breathing evenly and without tension.

The position of the wound wouldn't have allowed Red to do the job himself and whoever had done it had used very fine thread to avoid large scarring. A little unusual maybe, if he had to patch up the dumbass, he would have used thicker thread to prevent tearing, since he is maybe 98% sure that the idiot wouldn't wait for the wound to heal and parcour his way through Hell's Kitchen like a jackass immediately after. And he is correct, too, one stitch had indeed ripped through the skin, hanging somewhat loosely at the edge of the wound.

After putting away the tools, Frank holds Murdock's neck in place with one hand and slides the finger of his other hand along the suture to make certain that he has caught each small knot.  
The sudden tension in Red's back unfurls in a shiver as he turns his head towards Frank's hand on the gash in an approximation of someone trying to see what is going on.

It's like a flip has been switched in his head, his mind screaming warnings at him accompanied by klaxon sirens. Unlike Red before him, Frank doesn't retreat but barrels right on because he is nothing if not a reckless, contrite son-of-a-bitch. 

The wound is free of thread now and he moves his fingers to Red's upper vertebrae, squeezing a little in admonishment.

The weirdness that had tinged their docile interactions de-coils and untangles to something vaguely pleasant, tension unfurling to an informal warmth as Red lets his head fall forward slightly with a barely perceptible sigh and a veiled show of trust.

It's enough of a sign of approval for Frank to keep his hands where they are, revelling in the unfamiliar closeness, curious to see where this heads.

There's a very fine cut vertically making its way into Murdock's hairline and Frank follows the dark red trail with a finger until it is buried in the equally dark red curls turned inky in the murky darkness of the apartment.

He scoots forward a little, letting his other thigh touch Red's back and effectively boxing the man in on either side. Murdock doesn't seem to mind, he remains relaxed, even at the soft pressure of the contact with Frank's thighs.

The closer position allows Frank to move his hands to Red's clavicle, and further down to his chest as Red tilts his head to the side again, breath hitching slightly but almost inaudibly.

Unfamiliar territory makes Frank hesitant but he can't help sweeping his hands along Red's collarbone, one finger snaking below the delicate gold chain and lifting it so he can grab at the cross with the other. There's no engraving, no _INRI_ or anything else that would make this a personal trinket and Frank wonders if Red likes it that way, likes himself detached somewhat from his faith that is guiding him like it's the only thing reigning in the monster inside.

Red lets him do as he pleases, still mellow, blinking owlishly and otherwise not reacting much aside from the odd breathe he takes out of turn.

Frank lets the cross fall back down and it makes a barely audible clink on Red's chest that probably sounds like church bells to the man's bat ears.

He moves his hands back up and is interrupted by large horizontal scars on either side just below Murdock's collarbone. Red's sole reaction is this long blink he does and Frank lets his face fall forward a little to get a look as his fingers linger for a moment.

Frank doesn't ask and Red doesn't speak for himself either.

Murdock's body is an intricate road map of wounds old and new, mirroring his own and Frank wonders how long either of them are able to keep going like this. He believes himself to be ready for any outcome in battle, but he isn't so sure about Red, who still has much to live for, not taking into account his martyr shtick.

Wondering what exactly it is he is doing here, he sighs, rustling Red's hair in the process and taking his hands back to himself where they belong.

He clears his throat, not really sure what to say and feeling a little ridiculous when he does.

"All done." 

Red still doesn't move for a long minute, until Frank leans back on the couch and lets his legs spread further.

Murdock, the asshole, gets up the same way he had sat down, all grace and poise and flexing muscles and Frank barely resists the urge to kick him in the shins for it.

After disappearing in the bedroom to procure a fresh t-shirt, black this time, Red makes his way to the kitchen and comes back with two bottles of beer.

Frank only raises an eyebrow but accepts the bottle offered to him as Murdock is taking a seat on the couch within touching distance of him. Red tucks his legs on the couch beside him and takes a mouthful of beer.

"So now alcohol is all right?"

Red smiles into his drink.

"Well, there's no Karen to keep me in check. And if I get too drunk, I'm already here to crash on the couch."

Frank laughs a little and reaches over to clink his bottle to Red's, who huffs out a laugh of his own.

Before he takes his first sip though, Frank considers the foreign bottle, does a double-take, and then squints to carefully read the label in the shitty light.

“Wait a minute. Is this German?”

He is hard pressed to throw the untouched bottle at the wall to Red’s bedroom. Maybe in the process see how far he can throw Red, who tilts his head at him like an inquiring dog.

“Yes, why?”

Frank’s only answer is to groan, because, of course it is.

“I’ll have you know that German beer is renowned around the world for it’s high quality and rich taste.”

“I’m sure it is.”

He doesn’t take a swig, still not convinced. Red’s retort takes an almost delighted note as he raises his own bottle in a mock toast.

“I’m not above shoving it down your throat to prove a point, you ungrateful bastard.”

“We’ll see _who_ shoves _what_ down anybody’s throat here, altar boy.”

Red’s grin stretches to Cheshire Cat dimensions, teeth glinting in the twilight as Frank dreadfully realises what exactly he just word-vomited.

“Well, not on the first date.”

“I pity your dreary love life if you think this is a date.”

Red’s smile dims a little as he lowers his face into his beer, miraculously letting Frank have the last word. 

Frank deems the beverage save if a lightweight like Murdock keeps drinking it on a regular basis. Of fucking course it may well be the best beer he has ever had. To counteract his submission, he can’t help but to interject another dig. 

“And your calculation skills if you think of this as our _first_ date.”

Red throws his head back in a bark of laughter but doesn’t retort.

They sit in companionable silence for the majority of their respective drinks until the loud chant of _Karen Karen Karen_ of Murdock's phone jars them out of their lull. 

Red gets up from his comfortable sprawl to answer the phone that he had left on the dining table.

"Yes, I'm at home and okay, thank you… Ah, so you got what you needed, I'm glad."

Red tilts his head toward Frank on the couch.

"Yes, he is okay, too. Get back to your date now, chop chop…"

Frank jerks his head back when Murdock raises his voice suddenly.

"Karen!? This is not a da-"

Red cuts himself off in mortification, negating this and that question, a little testily, and ultimately bidding her a good night.

He tosses the phone on the counter and marches toward the fridge, procuring two new beers for them and sauntering back over to the couch. 

And Frank should have anticipated it, he really should have. As is the recurring theme of the evening, when Red comes to sit beside him on the couch, he once more trips over the same fucking crease in the carpet as before, only managing to save the beers from spilling on Frank's shirt by twisting his body just so. 

Frank's hands shoot out for the third time, cushioning Red's fall toward his lap, the other man landing with a soft oof, beers still securely held in each hand, not a drop spilled.

Red tilts his head at him as Frank snorts at the ridiculousness of it all.

"Much obliged for saving my shirt."

His tone is amused as Red moves back a couple of inches, so his ass is touching the couch again instead of Frank's crotch, but leaving his legs draped across Frank's lap.

"Karen seemed to like it."

Frank takes a beer from Red with one hand and lowers the other to the legs on his lap, turning his body more definitely towards Murdock.

"Are you mocking me or Karen?"

Murdock leans closer and there's a smile in his voice when he speaks next, head turned towards Frank's neck and clinking his own bottle to Frank's.

"Well, she did say Red suits you."


End file.
